


Can't Speak

by Terminality



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Fluff, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, M/M, Post-Sburb, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-25
Updated: 2012-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-30 02:32:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terminality/pseuds/Terminality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're flushed for him. It sort of makes you feel like an idiot because of all the people in the world, how did you end up flushed for Dave fucking Strider. The guy you should, by all means, hate, because he is a walking contradiction to everything you are, calm and impassive to your impulsive and explosive.</p>
<p>(DaveKat, god I love DaveKat. Karkat second-person POV. Super soppy, romantic early-morning sex as requested by anon in the Homestuck kink meme.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Speak

**Author's Note:**

> What do I do when I should be writing the newest chapter of SO or working on my Karkat cosplay for this weekend? Why, I write horribly soppy and romantic sex for the kink meme, that's what. Oh god, self, what _is_ this. Heads up for mild xenobiology (nook+bulge combo, basically hermaphroditic trolls) and extremely soppy internal rants on Karkat's behalf. Aged up, post-Sburb, but you'd never be able to tell, hurrr.
> 
> Original request: "Let's get some happymushykat up in here.  
> I want to see Karkat finally realizing that he's in hard, (requited) deep love with someone. Self-diagnosing with all of his own clichè's learned from romcoms.
> 
> Cue passionate, slow, completely-smitten-with-you lovemakin'."

You wake up long before he does, but instead of getting out of bed like you know you probably should, you stay perfectly still, pretending you're still asleep. You'll stay this way until he wakes up on his own, and then you will roll out of bed and pretend that you haven't been lying here watching him sleep, like you do every single morning. You think he probably knows, but he doesn't say anything.

You feel idiotic when you do it, but you can't help yourself. His face is relaxed and open while he sleeps and it makes your stomach feel weird in a fluttery kind of way, the way his pale skin shimmers with the gentle remnants of sleep somehow mesmerizing to you.

You feel moronic. You feel like something straight out of a romcom, lying here watching him while he sleeps and thinking about the freckles that dust his pale face and the way his hair sticks on end when he's not fussing to brush it back down again. You feel absolutely fucking hopeless. You wonder how you became so goddamned weak for a human, of all people.

You're flushed for him. It sort of makes you feel like an idiot because of all the people in the world, how did you end up flushed for Dave fucking Strider. The guy you should, by all means, hate, because he is a walking contradiction to everything you are, calm and impassive to your impulsive and explosive.

But you aren't really that different, and it goes past eye color and class and drifts into a territory of deep, personal fucking up that you don't want to go into. You fell ass-backward into this relationship and you sometimes wonder how you're here, but then he crawls into bed with you at night and puts an arm on your waist and you think this really is worth all the frustration he might cause.

He understands you, somehow. Deep down. You understand him, too, in a way no one else has, and even though he never says that out loud you can tell he feels that way in the way he comes to you when everything is too much. You can tell in the way he takes off his shades and really looks at you when the scars just hurt too bad, and you know, goddammit you know, because you feel them every day, too.

So you're flushed for this idiot, flushed to the point where his fingers on your wrist tingle and the way his eyelids flutter when he's deep in sleep make you want to reach out and touch his face with your fingertips and kisses, like some kind of soppy fucking romcom star. 

He catches you staring because you are so lost in thought that you don't realize red eyes have flickered open to look back at you until his hand is resting on your stomach, his thumb running little circles in your abs. You try to glare at him, offended, and you start to sit up because this is your cue to act like none of this ever happened. His hand stops you.

"Hey babe," he says, sleep making his voice heavy, and your stomach does a little, obnoxious lurch because his voice sounds so earnest and raw when he first wakes up and he hasn't had time to get his coolkid front up and running for the day. Gog you are such a wreck if even the sound of his voice is affecting you.

"Let me up. Unlike some people I actually have important responsibilities and can't just lie in bed like a lazyass and sleep in every day," you say it with a stunning lack of venom, and he doesn't take you seriously at all, as per usual. He loops his fingers around your wrist and tugs you closer to him, and you let him pull you back down to the bed. He tosses a long leg over yours and pulls you under his chin, humming in sleepy contentment.

"Whatever, Karkles," he says and his breath pushes your hair around, tickling at your face and ears. You huff in annoyance and reach up a hand to brush it away.

You never expected Dave Strider to be a cuddler, but when you're both alone and in bed like this, you're hard pressed to get him to let you go. You mutter a complaint at him, more out of habit than a real desire for him to let you go, and you allow yourself a moment to snuggle back under the blankets with him. It's fucking cold out there, anyway. Everyone can wait for a few minutes.

"What'cha thinking about, Karkitty?" You growl at him - he is insufferable when it comes to the nicknames he has made up for you - and shake your head. His fingertips are working at your hip bone mindlessly, small circles rubbing into the muscle there, and you squrim a little.

"Nothing. Now stop that, it's starting to tickle," you grab his fingers with your hand and put them on your side instead, and he chuckles in your ear.

"Didn't look like nothing. You've been spendin' the past five minutes staring at me like some kind of creepy teenage romance hero while I sleep. It's not polite," he says, his voice taking on that usual, weird accent it always gets when he's tired and not keeping on top of his apperances. You like that about him, too. It's something only you get to hear and it makes you feel special, like he's reserving a part of himself for you.

As soon as you think that you feel retarded. You're waxing poetic, flushed bullshit for this idiotic cool kid as hard as one of your romcoms. It's pathetic.

"If you keep makin' that face it's gonna stick that way, babe," he drawls, and you glare at the top of his head while he starts to plant little kisses along your jawline and neck. His hand is moving down your side and stops at your ass, giving you a light squeeze, and you wiggle away and let out a puff of air in annoyance.

"Off. I have important shit to do," you say it even though you really would rather just stay in bed and let him kiss down your chest like this, and you grab hold of his shoulders and try to push him off halfheartedly. When he licks a line along your collarbone, you shudder, and decide that you really have zero interest in getting out of bed now.

You flip your head to the side and look at your digital clock on the nighstand. You won't be meeting Egbert for another hour and a half. You guess you have time for Dave and his sleepy, early-morning nuzzles. He is a clingy beast when he first wakes up.

"Egderp can wait fifteen minutes longer. He probably won't even realize you're late," Dave says it against your bare chest and the warm flush of his breath tickles. You put a hand on the back of his head and tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling him back up toward your face and into a deep kiss, slipping your tongue in his mouth. He wastes no time in kissing back and pulling you on top of him, your knees on either side of his hips and his already forming erection pressing against the thin fabric of your shorts.

"Gog, you're so needy in the morning," you say it as he's working his fingers under the edge of your shorts, and he shrugs and gives you that stupid, cocky, and utterly irresistable lopsided smile of his.

"What can I say, creepy early morning stare downs are a turn-on," you growl and slap him on the chest for his smart ass response - everything he says is a smart ass response, fucking bulgelicker - even as he's helping you get out of your shorts. You hate to admit how turned on he makes you, sprawled half naked under you, his mouth working frantically against yours as he works his own pants off under your legs. As soon as his does his hands are on you, one gently rubbing your bulge, the other pressing lightly against your nook, and you moan and grind down into his fingers.

"Gogdammit, Strider, you are such an insufferable, sarcastic prick, I have no idea why I," you falter, words lost into a deep moan as his fingers slowly press into your nook, pushing in just barely and pulling back out again, never really going deep enough, "why I even put up with - ugh dammit stop _teasing_ , you fuck."

He chuckles against your neck and you shut up his stupid laugh with another kiss. You're leaning down over him, sitting almost on his stomach while he fingers you with one hand and palms your bulge with the other, and you groan into his mouth. He likes to drag it out, to make you squirm against his chest, and you hate it so fucking much, you hate him and his stupid hands and the way it makes a warm, tingly feeling build up in your body, from the tips of your toes to your scalp.

Except you don't hate him at all, because when you pull back from the kiss and lock eyes with him you can't help but let out a strained, bubbling, wordless noise of pure emotion. The expression in his eyes is almost gentle behind the lust there, and it makes you want to fold him up and keep him stored away somewhere forever in a place only you can reach.

"God, I haven't even done anything yet and you're already speechless. Must be a good day," his voice pulls you out of your thoughts enough that you growl at him. You lean down to nip at his neck with your teeth, barely enough to break the skin, and you reach down to his waist to wrap your fingers around his cock. He groans when you do, and you slide down the bed so your hips are lined up, and you moan while you guide his cock to your nook and press yourself down against him and him inside you. For a moment it's almost too much and you hesitate, clinging to his torso, head leaning against his shoulder and staring at his chest while you adjust. 

He rubs your hips, thighs, and chest and presses little kisses to the top of your head while you take deep, shuddering breaths, and it makes your chest hurt in that same over-sensitive way of pure feeling because he's so gentle and patient.

Fuck.

You look up and into his eyes when you start to move, rocking gently into his hips, and he looks you over with such gentleness that you can't help but moan a little.

You feel moronic.

"Strider, fuck," he grunts in response, hands working on your lower back and ass, rubbing and squeezing and moving you in time with your own little rolling motions. It feels intensely good, and you tell him so between pants, your breath spilling out over his mouth and ear. You kiss and nip at every part of his neck and face and he moans, meeting your mouth in kisses when you press your lips to his mouth and chin.

"You feel so good," he presses his hips up againts yours when you grind down into him and it shoves him that much deeper in you, and you groan and cling to his shoulders, shaking gently. He wraps his fingers around your bulge, squeezing in time with your rocking movements and his gentle thrusts, and it doesn't take long before it's too much.  
When you come, you grind down into his hips as hard as you can and he gasps when you dig your nails into his shoulder and you stare directly into his eyes, gold meeting vibrant red, and you think:

_I pity you_.

You open your mouth to tell him that, as he pulls you down against him and pushes up into your hips again and you feel him shiver with his own orgasm. You kiss his lips while he rubs your back and you want to say it so bad, want to tell him how the very sight of him makes your chest hurt and how you think you've fallen head-over-heels flushed for him, how you can't get him out of your head.

You want to tell him that you pity him, that you love him in the human sense of the word, that you want to keep him to yourself forever and ever, that you'll never let him go.

But you can't.

As he rolls you off him and rests his head on your shoulder, hand against your lower stomach, humming some mindless tune in content, you find you can't form the words. You open your mouth, you make a small noise in the back of your throat, and you rest your hand on the back of his head, smokey gray skin contrasting sharply against pure white hair.

But the words won't come.

And that's what makes you so pathetic. You're flushed for Dave Strider and you can't even say it out loud, can't even own up to it even when he's let his guard down like this, just for you.

"Dave," you start, and he rolls his head off your shoulder and props himself up next to you, looking you over. Fuck, you are terrible, a complete worthless fuck up of a matesprit who can't even tell his mate how he feels. Dave's expression goes uncharacteristically soft.

"Yeah, I know, Karkat," he kisses your shoulder and gives you a nudge to get out of bed, and you start to sit up, because you're going to be late at this rate.

His voice is soft and you almost don't hear it, but it's there, and it makes your stomach flip and your chest hurt and you can't even help but smile when you catch what he said:

"I pity you, too."


End file.
